The Price of War
by LeaderPinhead
Summary: Praxus fell, and only one survived. The story of how Bluestreak became the Autobot he is today. A Bluestreak Origins One-Shot [G1-AU-One-shot]


The Price of War

Transformers/Beast Wars One Shot

Summary: Praxus fell, and only one survived. The story of how Bluestreak became the Autobot he is today. A Bluestreak Origins One-Shot [G1 AU]  
Warnings: Death

Time Units  
Solar Cycle [Cycle]: ~1 day  
Joor: ~1 hour  
Vorn: 83 years  
Decivorn: 8.3 years  
Stellar cycle: ~7.5 months  
Orbital Cycle: 1 month  
Orn: 13 days  
Breem: 8.3 minutes  
Megacycle: 2.6 hours  
Deca-cycle: ~3 weeks  
Metacycle: 13 months

* * *

**~There is always a price to war, though it does not always demand a monetary value.~**

* * *

Praxus had fallen.

The attack had come from nowhere. The city and its occupants had been living their day-to-day lives since the war had begun. Those who hadn't enlisted in the separate factions continued on with their everyday lives, ignoring the reports of the Decepticon attacks or the Energon shortage that was beginning to affect the planet as a whole. The few who took heed of the news they heard had prepared themselves as best as they could—some constructing shelters in case of attacks or stockpiling the Energon they could—but others felt no need to worry.

The war took place in another area—it wouldn't reach their neutral city. Iacon was where the Autobots were stationed, and it stood between Praxus and Koan. Any Decepticons would be stopped long before they reached the city…or so they had thought.

No one had been prepared when the drove of Seekers had descended upon the city. The landscape was ravaged, buildings crumbled, and innocent lives were taken. The beautiful crystal gardens of Praxus were shattered, and explosions rocked the air as fire engulfed what had been lucky to survive the initial attack. The blood curdling screams from civilians had served as background noises with the drone of Seeker engines.

Throughout all of this, a small youngling trembled in terror beneath the stairwell his sire had shoved him into. He was no older than thirteen vorns—a youngling on the very edge of getting his last upgrade. His entire frame shook with each explosion, and his hands clutched his dark grey helm in an attempt to block out the noise. He whimpered at the screams he heard and curled in on himself even more.

Where had his sire gone? He said he would be back with carrier soon! He didn't want to be alone; he didn't want to hear people scream, and buildings fall, and bombs explode. He didn't want to die!

An explosion hit closer to his hiding place, and the building shook more than it had before. The youngling peeked out from his arms, and a new wave of uncontrollable fear washed over him as he saw the jagged hole the last attack had created in the wall parallel to him, permitting the horrible smell of burnt rubber and smoke to invade his senses. It allowed him a perfect view of the devastation outside. The fire; the rubble; the shattered crystal; and the people who searched for shelter.

He watched a mech run by in the street, carrying a crying youngling who looked much smaller than him. He averted his optics before he could see what happened to them, but his sobs increased as the shouts from the mech and cries from the youngling were abruptly cut off.

Why was this happening? What had they ever done to the Vosians to deserve this? Where was his carrier? He needed her!

The loud explosions and screams covered the sound of a mech landing outside of his hiding place, and he didn't see the large hand that reached in to grab him until it was too late. The youngling screamed as he was suddenly dragged out by his sensitive door-wing, and he automatically curled up as he was dangled in the air. His crystalline optics locked with burgundy, and his sobs increased at the sight of the unforgiving grin on the mech's dark face.

"What's this?" the mech said with a sardonically innocent tone. The youngling could only whimper as a sharpened claw tapped the bottom of his chin and forced him to stare into the callous red optics. "A little glitch attempting to escape the slaughter?"

"Please!" the mechling bleated, reaching up to grab the hand that dented his sensitive kibble. "Please d-don't hurt me! I-I didn't do anything. I just-"

"Shut up!" The youngling cried out as he was flung to the ground, and he whimpered as his arm was bent at an awkward angle on impact. "I hate begging. It's so pathetic and a waste of time."

"But-"

"Say another word and you're dead."

The mechling clamped his mouth shut, clenching it to the point that it hurt. The Seeker saw this and released a deep laugh. "You Praxians are all the same! You're all big talk when you're on top, but when it comes to physical confrontation, you all cower and run. It's mechs like you that ruined everything!"

The Praxian could only watch as the Seeker lifted an arm and began to power up his weapon. The youngling stared down the barrel at the unforgiving smile, and a frightening calm fell over him. Was…was this it? Was he going to join the AllSpark like in the stories carrier told him? He wasn't ready to do that yet!

As the thought flashed through his mind, the Seeker's arm jerked to the side. The concentration of energy went wide, hitting the building behind them. The youngling's optics brightened as the Seeker staggered backwards, clutching his dented helm and cursing in a loud voice. Sire stood beside him with a thick metal pipe, his usually white and blue streaked armor now darkened with ash and deeply scratched in various places. Blue optics shot down to him as the Seeker staggered back towards them with a nasty snarl that promised revenge.

"Run Silverstreak!"

His legs were obeying before his mind could register his sire's command. The youngling, Silverstreak, ran down the alley between the devastated buildings that had once been his sire's office and the Energon Café beside it. His short legs leapt over the small chunks of metal, and he ducked around the bigger ones, ignoring the various splashes of color that didn't match any of the buildings. He reached the end of the alley and stopped, horrorstricken by the destruction he saw.

"Don't stop!" Silverstreak didn't cry as his sire grabbed the arm that was hurt and yanked him down the street, staying out of the open and attempting to avoid the civilians that ran around them desperately looking shelter. Silverstreak's sire frantically searched as the sound of an explosion echoed behind them, and he numbingly ignored how he was rudely pushed aside by others, keeping a firm grasp on the youngling's hand to keep him close.

Silverstreak whimpered as they quickly ducked into what had been the body shop that his carrier liked to get her frame repainted and waxed in. While the front area of the shop had been completely destroyed, the frame of the building was still intact while the other structures around it had already crumbled. Silverstreak's sire quickly maneuvered past the rubble to the back of the shop where Silverstreak had never been before. He didn't have much time to see what it looked like as his sire shoved him under the counter.

"Stay here and don't make any noise," he ordered as another explosions rocked the city. His hands trembled as they ran over his creation's smooth helm, unconsciously attempting to get rid of the ash that covered his bright red crest. "Do you understand me Silverstreak? Not a word or sound. You'll be safe here."

He jerked upright at a particularly loud noise outside and ducked under the counter with the mechling. Silverstreak attempted to grab him, but the mech grabbed the youngling's hands and pushed him further into the safety of the corner. Silverstreak's whimpering caused the mech to quickly grab him back up, tightly squeezing him to his chest. "I love you and so does carrier. You may not always feel us in your spark, but _never_ forget that."

Silverstreak whimpered more as the mech backed away, but he stayed under the counter and watched his sire leave. His small door-wings frantically wiggled as he was left alone to listen to the awful noises outside. Everything would be okay—sire had said he would be safe here. Sire never lied, and he would be back with carrier soon…he had promised that too, right?

**~0~**

It was hard to gauge how much time had passed after his sire had left. Eventually the horrific sounds around him had faded into a constant drone of noise, and that too faded over time. Silverstreak remained in the corner he had been shoved into, silently weeping when an attack had caused the part of the building hidden from view to collapse. His bright aqua optics were his only source of light in the terrifying darkness, but it served to help him pretend that the events were nothing but a horrible recharge flux. He would wake up at some point, and carrier would come into his room to comfort him. She always did.

Even Silverstreak's adolescent youngling mind eventually scolded his stupidity. There was no one left out there; they were all gone. And he was going to be stuck here for the rest of his life, slowly dying as his body used what little Energon he had consumed at the beginning of the cycle. He had stayed here and cowered as his city was destroyed, as the many people around him suffered, as his sire and carrier—

Silverstreak suddenly banged his helm against the wall beside him, reaching up to grasp it in his hands as he began to hum short youngling ditties that his instructor had taught him at the youngling academy. He always loved that time of day—when he could sing and dance to his spark's content, and no one was there to tell him to be quiet or behave in a more calming manner. He wondered if his instructor liked her new job in Iacon; she hadn't been able to stop talking about how great it would be to go to the city. He didn't understand what was so great though. Praxus was just as good, with the beautiful crystal gardens that he loved to visit with sire and carrier…which were now destroyed. He had seen the crystal debris as he ran through the streets, mixed in with the pieces of broken building and bo-

The youngling sobbed as he violently banged his head again, not even noticing that the crest on his forehead bent under the force of the blows. There had to be a way to keep these thoughts away! Silverstreak didn't want to think about anything he had just witnessed. He just wanted to go home!

His frantic movements came to an abrupt halt at the muffled sound of a voice. The youngling's first instinct was to panic. The scary Seeker had finally found him! He was going to toss aside all the rubble that sheltered the youngling from the outside and shoot him like he had planned to do in the first place. Silverstreak struggled to find a way to escape his protective shelter. He whimpered when his thoughts were proven true at the sound of rubble being pushed aside and getting closer, and Silverstreak frantically clawed at the corner behind him. He wasn't staying here anymore; he had to get away!

A slender beam of light invaded his cubbyhole, and Silverstreak shuttered his optics at the bright light. His optics had been set on such high settings to see in the dark enclosed space that the new light caused horrible glares on the bits of glass and crystal that littered the floor. He clutched his head and carefully peeked through his fingers to see the tiny hole that had been made.

It was gradually becoming bigger as the being on the other side methodically dug through the debris, grunting in obvious effort. It reminded Silverstreak of how his sire would sound when carrier made him move the furniture in their apartment. The sight of blunt fingers slowly pushing a steal beam aside made Silverstreak's spark flutter with hope. Had sire finally returned?

As soon as Silverstreak saw a pair of wheeled heels, he began to quickly crawl towards the opening. It was sire! Vosians didn't have wheels on their heels, and there was no one else who knew he was there. He knew his sire had promised to return, and sire never broke his promises.

Silverstreak's wide smile promptly fell once he was out. A burst of static reflexively shuddered across his optics in response to the sudden flood of upset emotions, and he was left staring once more down the barrel of a weapon. Whoever stood behind it didn't have the familiar blue streaks of his sire or the bright greens of his carrier; instead he was a scuffed red and black, and he stood even taller than sire did—a terrifying height that almost matched a Seeker's. He didn't even have the familiar form of an average Praxian.

The gun moved, and Silverstreak reacted in the only way he could think of—he ran. He ran faster than he ever had before, stumbling over chunks of metal and other debris in his haste. The yell from behind that told him to stop didn't have any effect on him, and Silverstreak ran towards the demolished alley that he had taken before. If he could get to the office building his sire had worked in, he could find a new place to hide in there. He knew all the nooks and crannies in it from previous visits, and his sire would know to look there when he didn't find Silverstreak in the place he had been left in. Sire was going to be _really_ angry when he found out that Silverstreak had disobeyed him, but the youngling knew he would come to understand. Sire never stayed mad at him for lo—

Silverstreak shouted as his arm was snatched from behind, and he was lifted into the air. He didn't stop to think or see who his captor was; his first and only instinct was to kick, and scratch, and bite at whoever held him until they let go. At first the mech only growled at having his golden chest plate scuffed by the youngling's tiny pedes. He turned around to address his partner, and that was when Silverstreak wedged his tiny fingers into the mech's wrist joint to grab the sensitive wires there and pulled. _Hard_.

"Slaggin' piece of rusty scrap!"

Silverstreak screeched as he plummeted to the ground. He sobbed as his sore door-wing was banged against the ground, bending at an awkward angle that caused it to hurt even more. Static blurred his vision as the pain overwhelmed his tired body, but he struggled back to his feet and shuffled towards the safety of the alley. The angry voice continued to yell behind him despite the softer one that attempted to calm the situation, but Silverstreak ignored them both as he made his getaway.

He was halfway to the alley when his legs suddenly gave out. Unfamiliar warnings popped up before his eyes, and Silverstreak whimpered at the new display. He still attempted to get back up, but his legs continuously gave out on him until he resorted to crawling. He had almost made it between the buildings when his body gave out, causing him to collapse at the opening.

A shadow fell across him, and Silverstreak looked up with fading vision to see the blackened image of his captors. He finally relaxed at the sight of a proud pair of proud door-wings shadowed by the light of Cybertron's sun, and the warnings on his display faded to black.

**~0~**

"I oughta offline those buffoons!"

That was the first thing Silverstreak heard as his systems gradually hummed back online. His optics winked as his cheek scrapped against the smooth surface he laid on, and the youngling slowly attempted to sit up. He managed to get a quick look around the blaringly orange room before abruptly falling over to one side, crying out as his hand slipped off of the narrow berth he was on.

Silverstreak grunted as he crashed into the ground earlier than he expected, and he flinched when he realized a pair of arms was tightly wrapped around him. The youngling hesitated before cautiously looking up. He stared in confusion at the wide smile and brightly lit visor that greeted him. The mech carefully bounced him up into a more comfortable position, and Silverstreak didn't know what to do with the black and white mech that carefully placed him back on the berth he had fallen from. The mech gently laughed as he reached out to stabilize the mechling before he unknowingly fell over again.

"Better be careful there li'l mech," the mech said, his strangely accented voice fluctuating in humor. "Ratch' spent a lotta time fixin' ya up. Be a shame if ya just fell over an' undid ev'rything he did."

Silverstreak didn't have time to respond (not that he necessarily _would _have responded) when the mech was ducking back. He flinched at the sound of the wrench bouncing off the metallic floor and unconsciously scooted backwards. The mech raised his hands in humorous surrender in the direction it had flown from. "Whoa there Ratch'! Ah jus' came back online."

"What are you doing out of your berth?" an angry voice shouted, and a pair of stomping pedes honed in on their location. Silverstreak shrunk away from the white and red mech that appeared around the equipment that had blocked his vision. The new mech didn't look towards him as his red hands pointed towards an empty berth where multiple wires were lying on the surface. "You're still not fully recovered from repairs. A careless move can completely undo everything I spent joors fixing!"

Silverstreak suddenly realized that the angry mech was the one that had woken him, and he cowered back as the nice (or so he had thought) mech gestured towards him. "Ah couldn't let li'l mech fall. He'd 'ave been in worse condition than me."

Dark blue optics honed in on the youngling, and the heavy scowl that plagued the mech's face suddenly vanished. Silverstreak watched the mech cautiously approach him, both of his hands held out in a friendly gesture. Nosy Mech attempted to look past him to see the youngling's reaction, but he squeaked when Angry Mech turned around to point at the empty berth. "Jazz, if you don't get those wires reattached, I'll…"

"K'ay, k'ay!" Jazz said, frantically waving his hands as he hopped back onto the berth. He began to methodically push the end of the wires back into the ports on his arms under the watchful glare of the second mech. The obnoxious ringing that Silverstreak didn't even notice came to an end. He innocently smiled at the scowling medic. "We good now?"

The medic wordlessly pointed towards the last wire that Jazz had attempted to hide behind his back, and Jazz sighed as he picked it up. "C'mon Ratch'…"

"Do it."

"But—"

"Put. It. _In._"

Jazz whimpered and reached up to run a hand over his helm. He paused just below one of the horns that adorned his helm and lifted the wire up to it, snapping the end into an invisible port. The mech gestured his hands before him in an exasperated style. "Happy?"

"As happy as I can be with you as my patient."

Jazz poked his glossa out at the medic and rolled onto his back, propping one leg up on the other and folding his hands behind his helm. "Ah don' like wires pokin' outta my head."

The medic shook his head and turned away from the whining to focus once more on Silverstreak. The youngling flinched away even more, hoping that the mechs had forgotten about his presence. His optics darted back and forth between Jazz's easy grin and the medic's worried frown, and he felt the world tilt sideways as he attempted to scoot further away.

Jazz's grin almost faltered at the youngling's movement, but the medic simply sighed. Silverstreak's whimpers increased in volume when he took another step forward, his hands held up in silent reassurance. "It's alright now. My name's Ratchet, and I'm a medic. See?"

Silverstreak's overly bright optics focused on the design that Ratchet pointed to on the armor of his shoulder. A bright red cross stood out from pristine white, and Silverstreak remembered such a logo from the nice nurse-bot that had given him tasty rust sticks when he had gone to the medical center to get a rust infected joint treated. He had been taught to trust a mech or femme with that kind of symbol, but Ratchet had sounded so mean! What if he was just as bad as the Seeker?

Aqua optics remained firmly locked on the red and white mech as he slowly bent forward to be closer to the youngling's height. Silverstreak instinctively scrambled backwards before he realized he was backed into a wall. Whimpering with inexplicable fear, the youngling curled up to protect himself, grasping his no longer dented helm with tiny hands and pulling his knees to his chest. He missed the disheartened exchange between the two mechs and simply flinched away when he felt a hand tentatively run along his back.

"It's alright now," Ratchet repeated, continuing to rub the mechling's back until he gradually relaxed. The medic was noticeably awkward as he bent over to comfort the youngling. How long had it been since he had treated someone so young? A stellar cycle? A decivorn? _Vorns_? The medic had lost count of how long it had been since he began to patch up wounded soldiers. He had lost the soothing personality he had held as a junior medic and war had hardened him against the many losses he had witnessed as Chief Medical Officer.

Now how was he going to earn the trust of a traumatized youngling?

"Hey there li'l mech," Jazz said from his berth, and Ratchet looked over his shoulder at the mech. The medic scowled at the sight of the saboteur removing his wires, and the scowl deepened when the machines the wires were attached to continued to read off the vital signs of a mech. He would have to severely reprimand the saboteur for hacking his medical equipment…_again_.

Jazz just smiled as he carefully stepped towards them, keeping a comfortable distance when the mechling looked up at him with fear. "Ratch' here just needs ta fix ya up. You don' wanna be walkin' 'round without ya wing, d'ya?"

Ratchet could have turned around and offlined the mech then and there. He knew that Jazz was just trying to help—the mech had been the first to volunteer being roomed with the kid—but sometimes Jazz just had no…_tact_. Ratchet had dealt with a few mechs who sported the same frame as the youngling; he knew how attached they could get to the wing-like kibble attached to their backs.

So it was with little surprise when he watched the mechling come out of his defensive curl to frantically look over his shoulder, first right, then left, and then right once more. The poor mechling released a terrible keen as he finally realized that one side did not match the other, and he reached behind him, grasping where his left door-wing had been removed to repair the strained joint and dented framework. His desperate attempt to find the missing kibble struck Ratchet's spark in a way that he had not allowed it to feel in years, and the medic reached for the youngling without a second thought.

"Calm down," Ratchet said as the mechling's vents began to hiccup in distress. He could feel more optics focusing on him from the doorway, but he ignored the new audience as he reached out to run a soothing hand along the youngling's helm. He covertly reached across to the other end of the berth and pressed a button on one of the machines that the mechling was attached to. "It isn't gone—I'm just fixing it. You had a rough time before we found you, but that's all over now. I promise to have your door back on the next time you wake up."

Silverstreak didn't hear half of what the medic said as his systems slowed down without his consent. His optics gradually dimmed as he shook his helm to fight the sudden drowsiness. He wasn't ready to recharge; he had just woken up! He had to find his carrier and sire in the confusing orange that swayed and blurred around him. Unfortunately, his body and mind weren't currently on the same page, and he fell sideways into the medic's waiting arms.

Ratchet sighed and carefully laid the youngling on his front so that his lone door-wing wouldn't be squashed against the top of the berth. The medic frowned as he easily manipulated the youngling's limbs into a more comfortable position. The fragility of such small frames still caught the medic off guard, and his experience with the war simply made him more uneasy with the fact. He knew mechs with some of the most resilient armor in the Autobot forces, and they still ended up on his surgical table at some point. How the mechling had managed to survive without even a proper set of armor…well, some were saying it was nothing short of a miracle.

Miracle or not, the youngling was currently under his care, and as such, Ratchet took good care of his patients. Unless they proved to be more trouble than they were worth.

Jazz yelped at the unexpected blow from a wrench and scuttled back to his berth as a chuckle came from the doorway. Ratchet balefully glared at the saboteur until the other reattached every wire he had disconnected (_again_) and undid the damage to the machines his nimble fingers had caused. Once that was done, Jazz held up his hands in an attempt to wave off the medic's anger. "Ah was jus' tryin' ta help!"

"By telling an already distressed youngling that he was missing a door-wing?" Jazz yelped and ducked to avoid a thrown screwdriver. His visor brightened as he straightened and saw the tool embedded in the wall behind him. Note to self: make sure Ratchet never learns to favor another tool. "How is that possibly helping? You could have just made things worse than they already were, and get out of here Sideswipe! You and your idiot of a brother are what damaged that door-wing."

The red front-liner yelped and scrambled away from the door when the medic stomped towards him. Jazz snickered and laid back down as the med-bay crowd was dispersed. By now, the entire base must have heard about their temporary guest. Two solar cycles of endless searching had made the Autobot search and rescue squads loose hope of finding any survivors in the devastating aftermath of what was being called the "Praxus Genocide." If it hadn't been for Sideswipe's thick helm and his insistence to investigate an "equipment malfunction," the only survivor that the Autobots had found wouldn't be lying on the berth across from him. It had been a while since any of the mechs on the Autobot base had seen a youngling—the war had seen to that.

The mech's smile abruptly fell when he looked over at the little patient, optics blacked out in a medically induced stasis. If only the circumstances could have been better.

**~0~**

They were calling him Grey now. Silverstreak didn't understand why, but they had started doing it after the first orbital cycle. The youngling supposed it was okay though. It wasn't the first time his paint had been mistaken for grey instead of the dark silver it was. Silverstreak never bothered to correct them—he never bothered to talk at all really. His sire had ordered him to remain silent, and Silverstreak was a good youngling who obeyed his progenitors. Besides, his carrier had always told him not to talk to strangers, and this was unquestionably the strangest group of mechs he had ever encountered.

Ratchet didn't act like any medic Silverstreak had ever seen. He growled, and yelled, and cursed more than any other mech the youngling had ever encountered, and he even hit his patients with a wrench! However, the medic had never turned his unmatched rage onto him. While Silverstreak had been confined to the medical bay for the first orn of his stay, Ratchet had kept a very close optic on him, running all kinds of hourly scans and making him wiggle and wave his new door-wing. Silverstreak had gradually grown accustomed to the medic's methodical touches and haltingly reassuring words, and he had been upset when the day came for him to be moved out of the med-bay.

Into the arms of Jazz he had been placed. The mech had not been stuck in the med-bay for as long as Silverstreak had (and the mechling had actually been happy about that; Ratchet never seemed to be in a good mood when Jazz had been stuck in there), but the mech had always come to visit him when he had the time. It took much longer for Silverstreak to warm up to the smiling, joking, dancing, all around upbeat mech because there was no reason for him to trust the mech. He didn't have the symbol of a medic, and he didn't look anything like what Silverstreak was accustomed to. But Jazz had gradually managed to crack through the youngling's frightened shell and opened the door for a few others.

Silverstreak didn't like to be around the majority of the Autobot crew, but Jazz was a sociable mech. Autobots liked to stop in the hallway, or visit his room, or talk to him in the rec-room—Jazz was pretty much one of the most popular mechs at the base. Silverstreak didn't like it because they liked to try and talk to him too. However, he did like the friendly green mech, who told him stories of the many places he had visited and never bothered to ask Silverstreak if he was doing better now, and the quiet blue and white mech that Jazz would talk to because he didn't even try to make Silverstreak talk to him.

That was why he was here, staring at the wall of an unknown room. Silverstreak had been staying with Jazz since being moved out of the med-bay, and he had just been getting used to the mech's room when Jazz had told him he would have to stay with Mirage, the silent one. The mech had to go somewhere else for a while, and Silverstreak hadn't liked the strained smile Jazz had given him. He had watched with Mirage as the normally jaunty mech had rolled out of the base, insistently staying in that exact position even after Jazz's form had vanished and staring out at the terrain with a new fear.

The off-cycle had rolled around soon after that, and Mirage had escorted Silverstreak to his room before going off to attend to the duties that had been assigned to him. It was the first time that Silverstreak had been left alone since arriving at the Autobot base—the med-bay had always had a steady traffic of Autobots visiting for Ratchet's expertise, and he had never been forced to leave Jazz's side before now.

Silverstreak had never realized how much he relied on the presence of others until now. Since arriving to the base, he had been effectively distracted by the Autobots attempting to befriend him. The tablet he had been given in the med-bay was also a way to keep his active mind at ease, focusing on the scribbles on the bright screen instead of the memories that attempted to haunt him during the active hours of the day.

But the off-cycle…the off-cycle was a completely different story. His orn in the med-bay had never been a problem; Ratchet had kept him in stasis for a good chunk of that time so that he wouldn't freak out about his door-wing. It was his first night in Jazz's room that had revealed his current problem.

Silverstreak would pretend he had no recollection of the terrible visions he would see after his processor booted down for recharge; the only memories he acknowledged were of a worried Jazz shaking him awake, usually with whoever was close enough to be alerted by his screams. He wouldn't boot back down unless Jazz agreed to curl up beside him on the berth and kept every light on in the room. Even that sometimes didn't help, and the saboteur would be carrying around an exhausted mechling the next day.

The orphaned Praxian was absolutely terrified to recharge now. What if no one came to wake him up when the memory fluxes crept up on him? What if no one even remembered he had been left alone in this room? What if everyone left the moment he fell asleep? He would be all alone again—in the terrifying darkness, huddled up in the corner beneath the counter, with the sound of wailing screams and audial shattering explosions and the image of angry red optics glaring at him through the darkness with the promise of—

Silverstreak shot off the berth like a turbofox being released from its cramped kennel. He had to get out of here! He scrambled with the keypad beside the door as the walls behind him began to slowly creep up on him, echoes of cruel laughter and hopeless wailing bouncing off of them to smother him. Just as his engines began to sputter and pause in the almost familiar sensation of a panic attack, the door slid back with an innocent ping, and Silverstreak was down the hallway before he realized what he was doing.

The Praxian ran with only a single-minded motive—to escape the images his processor forced upon him. But it didn't matter how far he ran or how hard he pushed himself; the images continued to come, hard and fast with relentless vengeance. His vents began to overexert themselves as he wheezed with unbridled emotion, and the thoughts that Silverstreak had fought to keep at bay for nearly two orbital cycles began to overwhelm him.

Energon splattered streets; the smell of heated metal and melted rubber burning his olfactory senses; the heat of flames on door-wings as he runs through the streets; the sounds—the terrible, _terrible_ sounds of death from above.

Silverstreak cried out as he collided with a hard object that sent him flying backwards. He sobbed as he hit the floor and automatically raised his arms to protect his helm, too lost in his memories to realize there was no threat. His door-wings clung to his lower back as he was allowed to vent spark-wrenching sobs on the floor.

A breem slowly passed before the static in his eyes had died down enough for him to realize that there was someone standing over him. Silverstreak's door-wings perked up as they picked up on the faint EM field around the mech before him, and the youngling attempted to repress his crying. He knew he was already pathetic enough with the way he would cringe away from others with no reason; he had heard some of the soldiers say so. He didn't want them to kick him out after seeing him finally break.

"Are you finished?"

Silverstreak's vocalizer bleeped from being left unused for so long, and he batted at his aqua optics in an attempt to dismiss the static that still blinded him. Bits of black and white armor came into view, and for a moment, Silverstreak hoped that that it was Jazz already back from his mission. Silverstreak was forced to restart his optics several times before the image became more concrete, but he didn't feel any more upset when he realized that it wasn't the familiar mech.

The new black and white mech frowned down at him, dark blue optics staring down at him with unforgiving detachment. The bright red crest attached to the mech's forehead seemed to further highlight the emotion as it casted a shadow down his face, and his facial features barely twitched as he pointed to the ground beside the youngling. "Return the data-pad I dropped due to your abrupt collision."

Silverstreak's door-wings fluttered in confusion as he looked beside him at the innocent data-pad. It was longer and thicker than the ones he was used to handling, and his numbed fingers fumbled to grasp it. The mech took the data-pad without complaint and grunted after examining it. He pointed back down to the floor beside Silverstreak. "The stylus as well."

The worn stylus was returned in the same manner, and the monochrome mech grunted again when he slid the pointing device into the holder attached to the pad. "Thank you. Now return to your guardian. Curfew has passed 6.8493 breems ago."

Silverstreak dumbly nodded and watched the mech nod once more before turning. The youngling suddenly gasped, and his light optics brightened in unrepressed astonishment as the mech walked away. Regal black door-wings with Enforcer decals were stretched out against the mech's back, fluctuating in response to energy fields they must have been able to discern from the air around them.

Prowl continued through the Autobot outpost until he reached his officer's quarters. He placed the data-pad under his arm long enough to swiftly tap in the code for his door and stepped into the room soon after. He took a few steps in before pausing to stare around the room, his door-wings unconsciously rising and falling as he took in the area.

He had been told on the few occasions that someone visited his room that it was incredibly dull and bare of any personal effects. However, Prowl had no qualms with keeping the room in an almost untouched state. There was a reason why he had requested (and subsequently been denied by Ratchet's medical input) for a foldable berth to be placed into his office. There was absolutely no need for him to have two rooms when one was more than sufficient.

The former Enforcer merely grunted at the thought of why he had been sent to his room by an annoyed medic. He was told he had been "working too hard" and he deserved "a brief break." A brief break? In the middle of a war? Yeah, Prowl would have to explain in perfect detail to Optimus what a "brief break" could cause when the Autobot's leading tactician was sent to his room.

The strategist's door-wings shook as Prowl moved across the room to place his data-pad on the small desk in the corner. He proceeded to remove several dozen more from his subspace until he had a reasonable stack of data-pads that he had managed to snatch up before Ratchet had evicted him from the office. Many of them detailed the tactics displayed by the Decepticons in the last stellar cycle while others remained blank—ready for his tactical plans to counteract the most used formations by the Decepticons.

Prowl's door-wings shook again as he finally looked behind him, frowning down at the reason behind his kibble's movements. Light blue optics looked back up at him with genuine awe, and there was a small glint of hope that overshadowed the deep fear that haunted the youngling's exhausted features. He examined the youngling's silver form from helm to pede and noted how the door-wings on the smaller mech's back wiggled in response.

"Can you read?" The mechling seemed surprised by the question, and Prowl frowned at how long it took him to answer with a wild nod. The tactician reached behind him to grasp the top half of the stack of data-pads from the desk and placed them on the floor in front of the youngling. "If you insist on blatantly breaking the regulations set on base, then you might as well do something useful. I want these organized by date, region, and unit. All of that information is located on the lock screen of the data-pad; do not attempt to read any further. When you have finished with this stack, I will require your assistance in organizing more. Do not dally—I do not have the patience for wasted time."

The youngling enthusiastically nodded, grabbing the first data-pad on the stack and turning it on. Prowl watched the mechling's wings wiggle in relief as he quickly placed the data-pad beside him and picked up another, placing it beside the first one and moving on with little pause. The tactician moved around the desk to sit down and briefly watched the youngling's various new stacks grow before turning to perform his own duties.

Silverstreak peeked over his shoulder at the older Praxian and felt immense relief when he found the mech diligently working. He reached for a data-pad and noted the three pieces of information that the mech had told him to use before stashing it away in a stack. The mech's presence allowed an unusual calm to wash over him. His spark fluttered at the feeling of another, keeping within just enough range to show him they were there.

He had finally found a successful way to keep his dark thoughts at bay.

**~0~**

To say that Jazz had been surprised when he returned half a stellar cycle later to find his youngling following the head tactician around like a lost turbo-puppy would be a severe understatement. He hadn't even been able to keep the mechling's attention when Prowl was walking by—the tiniest hint of door-wings had the younger Praxian scurrying over to cling to the strategist. Jazz couldn't even get an explanation from the mech!

While Jazz fought to regain what he deemed "his youngling," Silverstreak continued to organize the data-pads that Prowl sent his way. When data-pads were filed and put away, Silverstreak would run errands for the mech, trekking back and forth across the base to deliver messages, hand out data-pads, and round up troublemakers with his bright optics and adorable wiggling door-wings. Sideswipe had yet to figure out how to say no to the silent youngling as he was led by hand back to Prowl's office for disciplinary purposes.

Silverstreak's gradual recovery was a relief to them all. He no longer cringed away from anyone who attempted to speak to him; the dull look his optics since being released from Ratchet's care had noticeably brightened; off-cycles of screaming from memory fluxes had dramatically decreased since his discovery of the other Praxian; and the exotic kibble on his back was now active and more responsive to his emotions. Some of the Autobots had even claimed to see him attempting to mimic the movements of Prowl's door-wings.

However, there was still one constant worry that plagued a few of them. Silverstreak, or who they had come to know as simply Grey, remained completely silent. With the increase of his door-wing movements came an even lesser need for mechs to attempt to goad him into conversation. High door-wings either meant panic or anxiety; fluttering meant happiness; when the top was level with his shoulder, it was considered normal; and one wing raised higher than the other was confusion or question. Only Prowl had been able to "read" the silent language for the first few cycles it had been implemented, but others eventually picked up on the movements and settled with that. It seemed as if Silverstreak had found a way to obey his sire's last order.

Unfortunately, Silverstreak had learned a hard lesson in a very cruel and obnoxious manner—all good things must come to an end. Life wouldn't allow a mech to blissfully continue living without punctuating periods of harsh reality.

"What is your name?"

Silverstreak looked up from the cabinet he had been polishing to look at Prowl with confusion. The mech didn't even look up from the data-pad he held as the youngling's door-wings twitched to match his emotion. "I highly doubt that the ridiculous name others call you is legitimate. You have been living on this base for the last metacycle, and as it has been assessed multiple times and concluded as a greater risk than asset to move you to a safer location, I believe it is time that you are given a proper schedule just as the other Autobots on base are given. However, I cannot create such a thing if I do not have a proper name to put on file. So I ask again, what is your name?"

Silverstreak's arm slowly lowered from the spot he had been polishing, and he simply stared at Prowl. He wasn't the first to ask that question. Ratchet had tried to get the answer numerous times during his first few cycles at the base, and Jazz had attempted his fair share of times. Eventually they had given up. Silverstreak wouldn't talk; he would barely even acknowledge them back in those days. "Grey" had become the label that others gave him, and once that had been picked up by the majority of the base, no one ever bothered to ask for his name again.

Why was it so startling to him to hear the question now?

Prowl glanced up from his work when no answer came, and he frowned at the astonishment he found on the youngling's face. "Well? You have learned by now that I do not have enough time to waste even the smallest amount of time. What is your name so that I can properly assign you to the roster?"

Silverstreak just continued to stare. What was his name? The automatic response would be "Silverstreak." However, the mechling couldn't force himself to form the word. He had gone so long without even addressing _himself _with that name that it made his tank churn simply at the thought. All he could think about was the desperation and fear his sire had held when saying the name. Of how he had so cowardly hidden while the world around him burned and crumbled. Of constantly berating himself in the darkness as he wept for what he had lost.

The youngling barely noticed when Prowl slowly stood up from his desk, a critical optic fastened on his form. "Have you seen Jazz today?"

Silverstreak's helm snapped up at the odd question. Of course he hadn't; Prowl knew that because Silverstreak had been with him all day. Why would he ask such as a silly question? Prowl's frown deepened at the lack of response, and he cautiously walked around the desk towards the mechling. Silverstreak found the slow approach odd. What was Prowl doing?

"Perhaps we should go see Ratchet," the mech said. Silverstreak's optics winked at the abnormally soft tone Prowl took on. His confusion deepened as the Autobot stopped a few steps away from him to slowly kneel down before him on one knee. "He was hoping to perform an examination for your final upgrade. If all goes according to plan, the materials needed for it will arrive shortly."

It wasn't until Prowl's hand had carefully landed on his shoulder that Silverstreak realized why the mech was acting so strangely. His audials sharply focused on the quick and sporadic intakes of air, and his chest plate burned from the tiny spark that erratically thrummed beneath it. Door-wings uncontrollably fluttered on his back, and he reached out for Prowl, wrapping his arms around the mech's neck without a thought. Prowl stiffened at the contact and kept his arms awkwardly held at his sides.

"This is the fourth panic attack you have suffered from within the past orn," Prowl stated as the mechling's systems calmed down after a full breem. "The tenth within the span of the orbital cycle. They're not getting better as time passes like others have believed they would—they're getting worse, becoming more frequent and lasting longer. Tell me what is bothering you."

Silverstreak looked up at the tactician with overly brightly optics. Tell him? _Tell him_? How was he was supposed to tell the mech about the horrible memory fluxes he suffered from during the off-cycle? How did he describe the helplessness he had felt? The guilt he still stubbornly clung too? Talking meant acknowledging it, and Silverstreak couldn't bear to do that. He could still pretend that his sire would one day walk through the doors of the base to find him—that his carrier would come back with her big smile and bubbly voice. He had to be keeping his silent promise for a reason.

"Stop it," Prowl hissed, and Silverstreak realized too late that his systems were gearing up for another attack. The mech shifted to be on both knees before the youngling and moved his hands to hold both of his shoulders. His door-wings minutely twitched behind him before rising sharply in time with his new, grim expression. "This stops today. You have had ample time to mourn your lose and postponing the inevitable has simply made things worse. It's time that you begin acknowledging your current situation."

Silverstreak frantically shook his head, a deep churning beginning in tank. No…no, Prowl wouldn't make him talk. He was the only one on the base that never attempted to do that! He could read the simple signals made by his door-wings; he had always just let him sit down and handle data-pads without a word. He wouldn't force Silverstreak to relive that horrible time.

Yet, Silverstreak's hopes slowly disintegrated as Prowl continued to speak.

"By no means is a youngling meant to experience what you have," Prowl said, his sharp tone belittling the small fleck of sympathy in his optics. "However, this is war. Sometimes we must deal with our worst nightmares to continue forward because if we do not learn to cope with it, it will slowly eat away any speck of sanity we may still have. Praxus is gone—that's it. There is no bringing it or the people that were killed back."

_"Stop it!"_ Silverstreak wanted to shout. _"Shut up!"_

But he couldn't force his mouth to form the words as Prowl didn't pause. "Do you think that your creators would want to see you like this? Jumping at every shadow; refusing to accept the help being granted to you; allowing yourself to relive every moment as you recharge? You're clinging so hard to the guilt you feel and the false hope you've been allowed to delude yourself with that it is slowly _killing _you. How would your sire respond to that? Your carrier? Neither would want you to follow them to the Well of All Sparks when you still have your entire life planned ahead of you. I didn't initiate a Guardian bond to keep your spark from guttering out just so that you could come to this base and die, and I sure haven't wasted my time teaching you for you to continue to fall into this endless spiral you have created. You still live Silverstreak—don't allow your creators to have died in vain."

Silverstreak didn't even pause to wonder how Prowl had learned his name. His systems hiccupped and stalled as Prowl's words stabbed through his spark. He shoved away from the faint presence attempting to calm him as he was forced to acknowledge the two gaping holes in his spark where his creators had once been. It burned his spark to scramble around the burning edges of the unresponsive cavities, as if someone had physically burned a hole through his spark. He didn't want this. It hurt too much. This was all _Prowl's_ fault!

The youngling banged against the strategist's chest plate, reaching up to scratch his face in an effort to make the mech back down. However, Prowl merely knelt before Silverstreak and took all of the abuse the mechling gave him; he barely even twitched as Silverstreak reached behind to claw at his door-wings. Seeing that his attacks did nothing, Silverstreak immediately broke away and sprinted out of the small office. He ignored the confused saboteur he ran past as he attempted to control the sobs that threatened to escape him.

How could Prowl have done this? He had trusted the mech—_trusted him!_ He wasn't supposed to bring up the memories that haunted him every off-cycle. The time he spent with Prowl was the only reprieve he had. Mindlessly filing away reports, reading the detached descriptions of war like he had in his history data-pads, forgetting the world even existed outside of the place he called home—that was how he got through every cycle. He could just pretend that his sire and carrier had gone on an extended vacation of sorts; Prowl was like the unemotional babysitter. There were no feelings of guilt, regret, fear, self-loathing. He was just…just…

A burst of static blurred Silverstreak's vision as he collapsed against the wall of the hallway. In an attempt to keep down his whimpers, the youngling bit down onto his glossa with all his strength, but the abuse of the malleable metal couldn't hold back the noise of distress. He scratched at the sides of grey helm as unwanted images of crumbled bodies and charred buildings invaded his immediate conscious, and he finally wept at the loss he had suffered instead of the fear he allowed to control him.

Light blue streaks of Energon flowed from beneath his optics as Prowl's confirmation forced him to acknowledge the severed bonds he had been so desperately ignoring for the past metacycle. The pain crashed against him with brutal force, and it felt like burning claws wrapped around his spark to squeeze out every tear of Energon he shed.

His sire and carrier were gone.

They weren't coming back.

He would never watch his carrier's bright green frame bustle around the apartment as she searched for the memory cards she always managed to misplace.

He would never hear his sire's cheerful voice as he described the exaggerated day he had had at his office.

He would never feel their arms around him again, never smell the sweet or poignant scent of their favorite waxes, never hear their playful squabbles. He would never get a chance to show them what he had made on his final science project; never get to take those holo-keyboard lessons with his sire or make that crystal garden with his carrier like she had always wanted to. Never get to tell them how much he loved them again…

They were _gone_.

Silverstreak's whimpers never fluctuated as a cool presence wrapped around his spark. It was not like how he had been able to feel his creators, their sparks having been connected to his before he had even come online for the first time. This one was weaker and somewhat detached. Yet it seemed no less determined to calm him as it chased away the burning ache in his spark.

Only a few seconds after the appearance in his spark, Silverstreak vaguely realized that someone was crouched down and hovering of his shaking frame. Without pausing to think, the youngling flung himself at the mech. There was a familiar voice speaking far above his head, but he didn't register the words as a pair of arms wrapped around him, careful not to harm his frantically shaking door-wings.

Jazz glared at any mech that paused for too long to stare at the pair of Praxians huddled against the wall, Prowl ruining his cold and distant reputation as he comforted the weeping youngling that frantically clung to him.

**~0~**

"All right. Are you ready for this?"

Silverstreak glanced over to Prowl, who stood at the head of medical berth just out of his vision. The mech's rigid posture did not shift as he stared at the head medic on base, but Silverstreak could fell his Guardian send a short burst of assurance through their growing bond.

Silverstreak had not been exactly…pleased when he had been told that the older Praxian had somehow become his Guardian. Jazz had attempted to explain it, but the youngling had been too angry at the time. Once he had calmed down from crying, Silverstreak had been livid for the way Prowl had forced him to acknowledge his creators' deaths. He had been even more upset when Prowl had ordered him to begin seeing Smokescreen—a new Praxian transfer and what Sideswipe said was the closest to a "shrink" they would get outside of Iacon. He had stubbornly refused to forgive the mech and moved back in to Jazz's room until he could accept the new development in his life.

During the brief separation, Silverstreak had gradually continued to come out of his shell that Prowl's words had managed to crack. With his ignoring Prowl came the inability to sort data-pads—the mundane task that had kept his mind occupied for so long—and Jazz was regrettably not always available, having returned to his regular duties when Silverstreak's care had been passed onto Prowl. Silverstreak had not spent even a breem alone in Jazz's room before he realized that he could not do it. The stifling silence did nothing but dredge up what he had experienced in Praxus' fall. It didn't matter if he no longer allowed himself to be in denial of the experience—the memories hurt all the same.

So with a newfound need for distractions, Silverstreak had ventured throughout the base to satisfy that very requirement. He spent time listening to Hound tell stories of his life as a scout, using his occupation to explore parts of Cybertron that had been inaccessible to him before the war. The youngling would sit down to an occasional game of cards with the Mini-Bots or watch a holo-vid with Mirage.

However, the highlight of his day had come in the most unsuspecting package. Two to be in fact. Without Prowl's constant hovering, Sideswipe had sidled up to the youngling with a devious number of pranks in mind. At first, Silverstreak had been wary, especially of Sunstreaker, who he had avoided since their first rocky encounter. His fear of the scowling front-liner had been somewhat alienated after they spent a megacycle of completely repainting and gluing anything that wasn't bolted down in the rec-room to the ceiling while Sideswipe kept everybody busy. Sunstreaker had actually been the first to make the mechling laugh; it had been a small laugh, but Silverstreak had found Sunstreaker's reaction to finding blue paint on his leg to be _very_ funny.

Eventually, Silverstreak had realized that staying mad at Prowl would do him no good. His self-inflicted isolation from the mech had drawn to a close when he had meekly stepped into the tactician's office an orbital cycle later. He had come to realize that he needed his Guardian—his proper spark bonded Guardian—to help him get through the relentless ache he now experienced from acknowledging the two severed bonds in his spark. Prowl had silently looked up from his work and handed Silverstreak a data-pad, never verbally acknowledging Silverstreak's absence. Jazz had been dramatically "upset" at helping the mechling move back into Prowl's room, but Silverstreak had patted him on the shoulder in quiet assurance that it was for the best.

After he had decided to give Prowl a second chance, the Guardian bond that had developed between them began to grow. One day while they had worked on data-pads, Prowl had described to Silverstreak that the bond had unknowingly been established when they first met. The strategist had been grouped with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker during the Autobots' search and rescue attempts in Praxus. When he had seen Silverstreak running from the Twins, he had immediately dropped his comm. link with central command to chase after the youngling, the only known survivor that their two cycle search had discovered. Silverstreak's frantic spark—unbalanced and reaching out after the traumatic severing of his familial bonds and the overall experience—had latched onto the first spark it had found familiarity with. After speaking to Ratchet via comm. link, Prowl had been advised to accept the link, least Silverstreak expire then and there in his arms.

Prowl had attempted to ignore the bond, originally unwilling to take responsibility for the young mech. He was not the most…caring of mechs, and his position as the new leader of the Tactical Division in the Autobot forces had left him little time to spare learning how to care for a youngling. However, Silverstreak's tiny spark had other plans, and after being led straight to him the night he had suffered his first breakdown without Jazz had prompted Prowl to step into the role Silverstreak desperately needed at the time—a proper Guardian.

As his Guardian, Prowl now stood beside Silverstreak in the med-bay, staring Ratchet down with his usual, nonsensical gaze. "How long will the procedure take?"

Ratchet, unperturbed by Prowl's scrutiny, did not make any attempt to hide his annoyance. After all, he had explained this a dozen times now. Typical Guardians—never accepting an answer unless it was repeated an excessive amount of times. Ironhide was just as bad with Bumblebee. "Like I've said about a hundred times now, prep time takes about a joor as we make sure that little guy here is completely sedated and offline. The spark transfer takes eight megacycles at the _least_. Sometimes it can go a little over depending on what complications may arise. While the spark adjusts to the new frame, we'll begin the brain module transplant. This process normally varies with each case, but I imagine it won't take any more than a joor. All that's left after that is to monitor how the spark takes to the frame. All and all, you should be up and making a mess with those delinquents in less than a deca-cycle. Does that thoroughly answer your question, _Prowl_?"

Prowl frowned in contemplation before eventually nodding. "It will do. What are the normal times for recovery?"

The medic gave Prowl a heavy glare and brought his hand down to attach the drip that would put Silverstreak under for the procedure. The youngling's optics instantly began to dim as the Energon laced with synthetic sedative began to flow through his system. Prowl reached out to help Silverstreak as Ratchet left to beat back the group of mechs that attempted to peek into the med-bay to see the youngling one last time before he went under.

Silverstreak allowed himself to be laid down as the sedative began to take a heavier effect. He meekly reached through the Guardian bond as a new fear began to rise. He had overheard his carrier and one of her friends, who was a retired nurse-bot, talk about some of the transfers that hadn't been very successful. What if that happened to him? He wished his sire and carrier could be here.

Prowl cupped Silverstreak's helm in his hand, using his thumb to massage the bright red crest on the youngling's forehead. "You will be fine. Statistically speaking, there is a 97.5% chance that the transfer goes perfectly fine, a 2% chance for slight complications, and a 1.5% chance that your spark rejects the new frame. The only thing you truly need to worry over is Jazz gaining access to the Autobot database and listing you as 'Grey.'"

Silverstreak released a confused chirp, fighting to stay online at this point. Ratchet sure had access to some _strong_ stuff. Prowl patted his head one last time and took a step back to discuss a few more things with Ratchet before the procedure began. Silverstreak squeaked and lurched forward to grab the mech's hand, making Prowl look back at him with an air of impatient expectancy. The youngling open and closed his mouth in a comical manner, optics winking on and off as he struggled to stay awake. He muttered something that made Prowl step closer in surprise. It was the first time Silverstreak had attempted to speak.

"What?"

"Wanna be…," Silverstreak repeated as he flopped back down on the berth. Prowl leaned closer to the berth to hear the mechling's quiet words, but it did little to help. "Keep…sire…"

The youngling offlined after that, falling into a deep and synthetic stasis. Prowl stared down at the small body, knowing that soon the spark within it would be transferred to the adult frame not five feet away from him. He cupped the small frame's head once more before turning to search for Ratchet.

**~0~**

Silverstreak came back online a few cycles after that. His systems were slow to boot up, and the first thing he registered were the faint noises coming from outside of his private room. It sounded like a pair of voices engaging in a conversation, and he wouldn't be surprised if he discovered it was Prowl and Ratchet. The second thing he realized was that his spark still hummed strongly in his new chest, reaching out through the only bond still active and latching on to the cool calm that he was coming to learn Prowl always exuded. The final thing he noticed as he came fully online was how incredibly odd he felt now.

The youngling cautiously brought his optics online and stared in fascination at the suddenly more detailed orange roof above him. He jumped slightly as a message flashed across his HUD—did he wish to update his comm. link patch? Um…not right now? The message instantly vanished with the stray thought, but a few more messages replaced it.

Silverstreak was completely awed by the upgrades as he disregarded each new pop-up. Comm. links, alt-mode choices, adjusting sense settings that had been fixed before, subspace options, _weapon_ patchs—it was like he had transformed into a completely new species! Was this what it was like for every youngling transitioning into their adult frames? He sure hoped so because he was already an oddity according to the many adults he had met in his life.

The stray thought unwittingly initiated a brief montage of memories—instructor's, Autobots, sire and carrier—all making that one stray comment. Silverstreak shook his head, surprisingly dismissing all of the notifications with the small movement, and slowly sat up. At least there was still something vaguely similar to his previous frame. Silverstreak stretched his hands out and repeatedly clenched his bigger, pristinely painted black hands.

He glanced around the room—a regular private med-bay unit—in search for a mirror, and he thankfully found one in the corner. Silverstreak casually attempted to swing his legs around on the berth, but his unfamiliarity with his new frame caused him to whip them around too quickly and inadvertently fling himself off the berth with a startled cry. He stared at the darkened orange floor that had met his face and felt his door-wings—_huge_ door-wings—wiggle in time with his distress. His arms slightly shook beneath his weight as he used them to lift himself up, and he proceeded to maneuver his limbs in a more cautious manner.

By the time he managed to make it to the mirror, Silverstreak had almost mastered the ability to walk in a straight line without his new, oversized kibble weighing him down in one direction or the other. He gripped the edges of the mirror in an attempt to keep himself from falling over again and slowly took in what would be his frame for the rest of his life unless something unsavory occurred.

Silverstreak was somewhat happy to see that his color scheme had been replicated. Cool greys and dark blues composed the majority of the upper half of his frame, with just a splash of red for the crest on his forehead. Another bold strip of red ran across the middle of his abdomen, separating his frame between top and bottom. That same bright red continued throughout his thighs before suddenly diverting back to the grey and blue scheme from up top. His grey door-wings, left unmarked for the time being, wiggled over his shoulders.

The youngling was left completely awed by the new form, and his brighter, periwinkle optics showed the emotions very clearly. But…it still lacked so much. He could remember the sparkling conversations he had had with his creators about his final upgrades. It pained him to do so, but he did. He could remember talking to his carrier about wanting a similar helm design she had, with her exotic helm finials found outside of Praxus, and wanting to include more of his sire's paint scheme, adding blue streaks to break up the grey instead of the red he had now, and putting a more precise design to his door-wings. The exciting and happy moment of finally receiving his last upgrades was tragically stilted, knowing that none of his planned designs would happen now. He didn't bare any resemblance to his creators; he didn't have anything to serve as a reminder of them.

"Silverstreak?"

Silverstreak's drooping kibble instantly shot up at the sudden voice, and he almost tipped over as he twisted around to find the source. Prowl stood beside the entrance, his hand carefully placed on the closed door beside him. He quickly evaluated the younger mech's form with a cursory glance before lowering his hand. "How do you…feel?"

The younger Praxian absently shrugged, not attempting to hide the depression that Prowl could surely feel across their Guardian-Charge bond. Prowl's door-wings slightly hitched upwards, but the mech simply crossed the room to absently straighten Silverstreak's stance. "Now that you have received your final upgrade, perhaps we will be able to get you transferred to a Neutral base. With a more practical alt-mode and not the generic one of a youngling, you should be able to travel independently of a larger convoy, providing a stealthier mode of transport. Jazz is willing and able to get you through enemy territory to the more fortified bases on the edge of Kalis."

Prowl was slightly surprised when Silverstreak reached up to grasped his arms, nearly leaving dents with the newfound strength he used to hold them. The younger mech frantically shook his head, and the look of fear in his optics traveled through their bond. Prowl sighed and attempted to calm the mech with an awkward shoulder pat. "You will be much safer there. As your Guardian, I—"

"I don't want to leave!" Silverstreak barely noted the immense surprise that Prowl exhibited or how the voices from outside the room suddenly ceased. He simply clung to the strategist like his life depended on it. "I wanna stay here with you, and Jazz, and Ratchet, and Hound, and Mirage, and everyone! I don't want to go back to a place where they ignore what's happening outside of their city and think that they're untouchable. I don't want to be like that—I want to do something to stop this! To keep the Decepticons from doing the same thing they did to Praxus. I don't want another little youngling to lose their carrier or si—"

Silverstreak suddenly froze, optics brightening to an almost impossible setting. He released Prowl and stumbled backwards until his kibble was uncomfortably wedged between him and the mirror behind him. He barely noticed the discomfort as he brought his hands up to clutch his throat, staring at Prowl with optics filled with incredulous fear. Prowl could feel the younger mech's conflicting emotions and his yearning for someone to confirm that he had not lost his mind.

"You were the only survivor from Praxus." Prowl paused as his abrupt beginning brought forth unwanted pain in Silverstreak's spark. "But you were not the only one the search and rescue teams found. Thousands of bodies were recovered and properly identified before burial. One of those bodies was your sire. It was through him that I was able to find your file on what was left of the Praxian databases. His frame was regrettably…unsalvageable, but Ratchet was able to save a few of his parts to use in your upgrades. His voice component was one of those things."

Silverstreak nearly keened at the emotions that welled up in him. He hadn't finally lost his mind—that really _was_ his sire's voice that he had heard coming from him. He thought he would never be able to hear it again—that the last thing he would forever hear was the hopeless fear that his sire had desperately attempted to hide in his voice. It wouldn't be the same as hearing it from his sire, but it would have to do. The reminder he needed to keep his sire and carrier's happy memories alive.

Prowl waited for Silverstreak to speak again, but when it appeared that the other mech had temporarily withdrawn into himself, the strategist made a move to regain his attention. "Silverstreak?"

"Bluestreak."

The Autobot slightly tilted his head, the only sign of his confusion. "Excuse me?"

Silverstreak stubbornly wiped away the diluted Energon tears that threatened to fall, and he lifted his head to look directly into Prowl's optics. "My sire and carrier always said that upgrading to your final frame was a huge step. It was the time to leave behind sparkling-hood and become the mech or femme you wanted to be. I don't want to be the youngling that cringes at his own shadow or who refuses to accept that this—that _war_—is his new reality. I want to be a mech who stands in the way of the Decepticons, who doesn't just allow the Seekers to extinguish an entire city. I want to be an _Autobot_.

"And my sire always said that sometimes the first step to becoming who you want to be is Renaming. Both my sire and carrier participated in it, and I want to too. I'm not 'Grey' or 'Silverstreak' anymore. I'm Bluestreak. It may have been my sire's name, but I want to be the mech he was—someone who protected those he held dear and was willing to stand up to a bigger mech even when he was afraid. I wish I could do the same with my carrier, but even I think that 'Bluestreak-Bitrate' is a mouthful.

"So can you help train me to be an Autobot? You're kind of obligated since you're my Guardian, which I guess I never really thanked you for. If you hadn't been there, I probably wouldn't be _here_. I mean, I'm still kind of upset that it just happened, but you know what? I like having you as a Guardian. Jazz would've been a good Guardian too, but I know that he's got stuff to do off base, and he's not always able to be here. That, and he's kind of too childish. I mean, I don't think I've ever seen anyone wanna play more than Jazz—not even a legitimate _youngling._ But as my Guardian, I hope you don't mind me hanging out with Sides and Sunny so much because I promised that I would do more pranks with them. Well, not really, but it was sorta implied before Sideswipe got dragged off to the brig for setting up a paint cannon to go off in Ratchet's face.

"Speaking of Ratchet, I _really_ need to thank him for helping me. Not only for the upgrades but for helping me get through the first orbital cycle here. I can't imagine what it would've been like if he hadn't let me stay in the med-bay…are you okay, Prowl? You look surprised, which isn't like you at all. Did something happen while I was offline? Did Jazz just send you a bad joke? He told me he was the one who sent those anonymous messages to you that would make you glitch."

Prowl continued to stare as the mech came to an end to his long monologue, door-wings twitching without a care. The tactician slowly lifted a hand and heavily placed it on the now renamed Bluestreak. "I believe you have managed to create an alibi for your new name."

"Alibi? Oh, I guess it would be a little weird if I didn't have some explanation for the new name. My sire used to say that a name always hinted at a mech or femme's function. My carrier got her name for how she specialized in communications, but I'm not that sure where my sire's name came from. I guess it was how he was able to talk others into agreeing with the deals he had to make at his office."

"Silver—_Blue_streak. Are you alright? Perhaps Ratchet may have made a mistake when he was connecting your voicebox."

Bluestreak stopped and stared at Prowl. His periwinkle optics twinkled with an unreadable expression, and their strengthening bond remained quiet. "I'm fine, Prowl. I just…I don't wanna be quiet anymore."

The younger mech could not say anything after that. He did not feel the need to. Prowl did not need to hear him say that the sound of his sire's familiar voice comforted him in ways that it was just impossible for others to do. If Bluestreak had his way, he would pretend that his new name truly came from babbling about insignificant topics. His spark simply did not hurt as much when he spoke.

Prowl stared for a long moment before slowly nodding. He finally used the hand that still rested on Bluestreak's shoulder to guide the younger mech out of the room. "So be it. Ratchet mentioned that he wished to assess your condition now that you were online. Once he is finished with that, you will be able to leave the med-bay…and we will begin to discuss your training."

Bluestreak nodded and plastered a large grin on his face as they left the room to meet Ratchet and Jazz. He may have been happy to be upgraded a little earlier than expected, but he was far from okay; in a way, he would never be okay. But he would do what his creators could not—he would live. As his sire's namesake, he would show everyone the great mech his sire had been, and he would show them how wonderful a femme his carrier had been by portraying her bubbly personality. He felt that in a way, he had already been like both of them.

He just had to make sure that he held onto that belief. Because if he let it go—if he forgot—then he might not be able to keep going. He had to keep living and make sure that no one ever forgot the horrors the Decepticons had done. He had been serious in telling Prowl that he would he stand in the Decepticons' way, no matter how small of a part he would play.

Bluestreak refused to give up until the Decepticons were gone.

* * *

Transformers © Hasbro


End file.
